


portrait

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 12:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14111967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: a study.





	portrait

**Author's Note:**

> Hey you know how Steven Gerrard goes around his life all raw and desperate with 0 chill, especially when it comes to Xabier Alonso? Yeah Well this fic is like me if I were just as raw and desperate Steven Gerrard, except all this lack of chill stems from the fact that them two grandpas are really fucking gay and if they expect me to sit here completely calmly and watch them embarrass themselves then they can THINK AGAIN. 
> 
> Writing this fic was like rocking out to a combination of Bonnie Tyler and Queen only to realise that it's actually that screamy bit from Making Love Out Of Nothing At All by Air Supply. That's the best explanation I have.

 

_Hand_

You don't remember all the games you've played in, which makes what you do remember that much worse.

Take this: a goal, someone's just scored. There's a rush of euphoria shooting through your whole body. Maybe it's an important game, maybe it's a non-event in May when the league is too far away for you to touch. Doesn’t matter. It happens every time, every single time, and you scream loud and the same volume and the same colour and the same people scream with you.

There's a pile and you're in it. Congratulations, good job, well done, come on son. Your hand finds his, because your hand always finds his. Every time. Every single time. He holds it briefly and you feel that rush through your fingers, blood bursting. Like you're twelve years old and holding someone else's hand. Someone who isn't your mum. And in there it's all you've ever wanted, or some part of it, at least.

He takes your hand and holds it briefly and pushes it away. Gentle. It doesn't – it doesn't bring your world crashing down, and it isn't an admonition, and later in the dressing room he'll come up to you and smile and bury his face in your neck like nothing's happened – it doesn't mean anything. Maybe he's just saying come on Steven get back to the game. Even then he treated non-events the same as he treated season-defining ones.

Your hand skims his waist and the fabric of his shirt and then it falters in empty air, clutching around like it's looking for something. You bring it quickly in, tuck it back into your side. He's already jogging back to the halfway line. He wants to win it for us, you tell yourself. Jesus fucking Christ, Steven, you tell yourself. You're in the middle of the pitch.

You extricate yourself and think of the way he will hold you later. The same way. Not the same way.

 

 

_Lips_

So you know what everyone thinks when they think of you and him and Istanbul, and okay it's _something_ , but that's not what you remember. You've kissed him a million times. Missed him even more than that.

Every day from the moment he left, according to you, since you don't know how to shut up. Since your brain doesn't have a _no one says that about their ex-colleagues Steven_ button.

So. Yeah. It isn't the kiss that you remember, even if it was a great kiss, one of those kisses that meant more than they felt, you turning into him and him coming to meet you halfway. It's the picture you put up with that message. The sickly message with the name spelt wrong and no one even notices because they're too busy jumping at the rest of it: pure quality class act perfect career.

In other words. The stuff you say when you know he really isn't coming back.

Okay. Istanbul. It doesn't take you a long time to get sucked back into that, red and a gleam. Only the longer ago it happened the further away you feel, like some days you aren't even sure whether it was just a wonderful dream. Istanbul. A city that isn't a city. A song that isn't a song.

There are lights all over the stadium. You don't know if he runs into you or you pick him up, he's got a scarf draped around his neck that's red and white and lights up his whole entire face. And you think you might die, right there, just lay down and die, the warmth that fills your bones.

His legs are wrapped around you. Like some - fucking - scene from _The Notebook_ , or whatever romantic drama that's out in the movies right now - you shift to take his weight, he wraps his hands around your back. You've hugged before but it isn't like this. It isn't like - ah. Fuck. Isn't like you digging your fingers into his thigh and thinking about the penalty rebound, the way he put it in, calm until it rattled the net then screaming and screaming.

You press your lips to the underside of his jaw. It's another split second decision - lots of those tonight - you kiss him there and sometimes you think he doesn't even notice, wrapped up in his own euphoria, sometimes you forget how young he is how young you both are.

You kiss him there and your chin burrows into the soft wool of the red-white bar scarf. And you see this in the papers later, how he's looking far and wide and almost uncomprehendingly into the distance. This ridiculous grin on his face. Him screaming although you don't remember him screaming at all. You can see the smiling curve of your own jaw and his knobbly knees digging into your ribs. Jesus, you'd say after that, grinning ruefully and checking your skin, I'm going to be fucking bruised tomorrow.

And he just grins back at you, in a shirt that's too big for him, in a scarf that's too long for him. The best player you'll ever play with, you know that in a heartbeat. Magic, like. You think, okay. Okay. I'll wear those bruises like medals.

 

 

_Ankle_

You're the first to admit that it was a stupid thing to do. Maybe I reacted a bit, you tell the reporters, which I shouldn't. No fucking kidding. It's only a tackle and he gets a dime a dozen of those, everyone waiting to get to him because of how _good_ he is; but he goes down screaming and something in your head snaps.

Fucking predictable, you don't tell the reporters.

You shove Bowyer in the back and you're grabbing someone else in a headlock and someone's elbow is across your face and you're up for it, touch him again I dare you - you want to taste the blood on your lips, want to punch the lights out of something. Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer. Maybe self-destruction is the answer. He's still lying on the ground and someone's dragging your head down and you are so deathly _afraid_ , that's what this is about, you are so _afraid_ and it makes you angry. You think of Frank and his leg stretched out like a battering ram. He's still lying on the ground and you think of his ankle crooked and what you wouldn't do for him to make it better.

You wheel your arm out at one of the Newcastle players and Carra has to catch the end of your shirt to pull you back, but you don't want to be pulled back. You want to pummel everyone for touching him. You are so _afraid_ and you want to taste the blood on your lips. You are fucking predictable.

He sits up. Stretches out and puts one hand on the grass, and here: you'd do anything for him. He calls your name and you follow.

 

 

_Back_

And it isn't - hey - it isn't a fairy tale. You know that. You've always known that, the moment you signed the dotted line and said I want to play for Liverpool, I've always wanted to play for Liverpool. You know you'll have to play the games you don't want to play. You know you'll have to lose the games you don't want to lose.

Hey - but you know - some days it's worth it. It's that thing. You know. The overdone one about phoenix and flames, rising from the ashes, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. So you lose. So you've had _champions of Europe_ bandied about you more times than you can count and you still lose, two-nil at home, Carra rattles the crossbar and you're all don't give up now lads and Benfica break in the eighty-ninth minute.

It's that thing. You know. You go to him after it's all over and the lads are milling on the grass like they don't know what to do. And the crowd has stopped its singing. You go to him because you don't know where else to go.

You put an arm around his shoulder and he reaches for your waist. You feel the shadow of his arm rattle your back. Your numbers are golden, you know, fourteen and eight, golden because one night last year you were there you were there you were there.

He isn't looking at you. He's looking away, body half-turned, arm suspended between your back and the Anfield air that lies so tired around. You wonder if he doesn't want to meet your eye. You wonder if he thinks you're pathetic, coming straight to him when everyone else is hurting, everyone else deserves the comfort you should give. Captain. Captain. See that yellow armband, captain. You look away.

In the sudden quiet that falls over the stadium as you stand there as he looks away as the shadow of his arm rattles your back you hear: breathing. Yourself. Him. Just breathing. Not the harsh breath that comes after you run and you're bent over double trying to recover, not the quick shallow bursts when you're training. Just slow and measured. Continuous. Like no one's switched you off.

He doesn't put his arm around you but he doesn't pull away.

You lean into it, into him, curl your arm tighter. You think, hold on. You think, a year ago in another city you believed. You think, we made that belief come true.

You think, once you start believing you don't ever stop. Not really. Your numbers are golden on the back of your shirts.

 

 

_Voice_

You don't remember all the games you play in –

The sun is shining. It's a stadium. You don't know where. The sun is shining so you think maybe not in Liverpool, ha ha. It's on the Beeb so you think maybe it's the FA Cup. Another trophy you win once and never again.

He comes towards you, this time. He's got his hand out in front of him and you take it and he presses into you. His mouth is open and he's saying things and it's probably something about a free kick, or their left back tiring, or anything else about the game. For the first time you aren't listening. Aren't thinking about how to win this, be it three points or next round. And his mouth is moving but is it really, all you can feel is his hand that's gone up and around your neck, pressing into the muscle. And the way his hand extends like he's trying to tell you something important. And the cheek of his that's so close to you that if you turned you could kiss him.

It isn't special. This happens every game, every game there's some kind of group hug or celebration or commiseration, and it isn't special. You are not special to him. You are not special. You just are.

He's talking and you're looking somewhere else because you don't want to see his face, this beautiful face that's ruined you completely without you knowing why. You just want to hear him. Hearing without listening, there's some kind of a difference you can't put your finger on. You just want to hear his voice. You just want to hear the way he pauses before words like he's trying to work them out. The way vowels that should be hard come out soft. Everything about him, at this moment, is soft.

You're here and you're not here. You're here and just as you bring a hand to put against his waist you turn to look at him. Once. A tiny, infinitesimal glance. He's turned towards you. He catches your eye. Your hand slips off his waist and his hand slips onto your shoulder. You pause, there, this moment, already missing him.

 

 

_Hand, again_

Suit and tie doesn't fit you, but then again there's only one shirt you're really comfortable in. You fidget in your seat, studio lights too bright, show starting in three, two. Hold on.

Geoff says later that he broke through our defences, but it's really one of those things where everyone just falls apart to let him in. Just. Of course he's around. You knew he'd be here, loyalty pledged to the team in white, it's been so fucking long and your heart still stops every time. He comes over and he's looking straight at you and for once, you look back. Look up. He's standing above you and he's real and he says Steven, how are you, and you nod and say all right mate, how are you, and he just reaches out.

You're a millisecond late to the handshake, raising your arm too slow, and his hand hangs in the air a bit before coming to meet yours. His fingers are still warm and strong and you are shot through with oh God you have no idea how much I miss this even though you don't say it out loud. Your fingers wrap around his and your thumb brushes his knuckles. You keep your eyes on him. Like a challenge. He turns away first. Like the same story.

You watch him go. You are fucking predictable.

Geoff says, I don't think he would have bothered coming in to say hello if you weren't here, Steve. Shut up, Geoff, you don't say. You're grinning like a loon because your face betrays you every single time. You look down. Please, God. You look up and lick your lip. Please, God.

God says something about England and you jump onto that instead. Blah blah fire blah blah of course we want to win blah blah. It's got nothing to do with the game right now but you take it anyway. Jesus fucking Christ, Steven. You think, I wouldn't be sitting here if you'd stayed. That's unfair, Steven.

His fingers are burning holes into your skin. Break off my hands and I will hold you with my heart.

 

 

_Eye_

Here's this: the heart and the brain. That's what they call you. You're well aware. And here's this: the brain cannot survive without the heart. The heart can survive without the brain. Except.

It's Anfield, because that's how stories work, they are told and retold until they become themselves. It's Anfield and it's the last game of the season and you were so close, so close you could have touched the ribbons. You and him working perfectly. An almost-perfect season. Fuck Rafa what does he know - Barry who - the Kop roars, next year is our year.

Next year. Next year. Next year.

You wish he hadn't told you.

Second half kick off and you're standing with your hands on your hips, resting your weight on your right leg, staring at him. It's surreal. Not the surreal of being second in the league but the surreal of this is going to be over soon.

It's Anfield, because that's how stories work, they are told and retold and they end where they begin.

You're standing still and watching him. You're standing over the ball and he's moving everywhere, feet twisting, walking in circles, restless, wanting to go. You're watching him and he refuses to look at you. He's looking everywhere else, around the pitch, around the stadium, and you think maybe he doesn't want to forget even though you know that's exactly what he wants.

He keeps walking. Waiting for something. Jumping on the spot. Moving. Kicking his legs out. Holes in the ground from his studs. It's Anfield. The grass is so green.

He looks over his shoulder at something. Pauses a second, looks back. Looks down at the ball. It must have been ten, twenty seconds. You look away. You look down. The ball is at your feet.

What are you waiting for. What are you waiting for, Steven. No one stays.

You roll the ball into his feet without force. You don't wait to see what he does with it. You start jogging in the other direction, and his leg swings as he passes the ball back, as he looks back, a perfect straight line, you are running, a perfect straight line that stretches on and on.

 

 

_Shoulder_

What was it they said about prodigal sons.

You're in Dubai. Not for the same reason but at the same time. He's in a white polo and there are sunglasses dangling off his chest, because of course there are sunglasses. You're in black and beach shorts that are the ugliest thing you think you've ever seen. What to do – they were a gift.

You're holding your sunglasses in your hand. You're that much cooler.

He puts his arm around you and you put your arm around him and it's. Smile for the camera it's. Press your fingers into the white polo it's. Steven dios mio get better shorts it's. Please come home it's. Please.

 

 

_Cheek_

You embarrass yourself, wholly and thoroughly. It's becoming almost farcical, but you don't mind so much. Steven, he asks you, laughing, why do you keep liking all these pictures on Instagram, these ones where it's our names smashed together and sometimes there is Alberto as well – you shake your head and grin.

Of course you embarrass yourself more when he's back. You say all sorts of stupid, stupid things. Before the game. After the game. During. You say, I'd never ever get tired of playing alongside Xabi Alonso. You say, I wish we were back playing together on Saturday, you know. I miss it so much.

Jesus fucking Christ, Steven.

You line up with Liverpool legends like Fowler and McManaman and Aldridge and Rush, even Carra. You line up against Bayern legends like Matthaus and Zickler. And you go onto Instagram after the game with one picture of one person and _always a pleasure_.

Jesus fucking Christ, Steven.

So here's this: he's got the captain's armband and damn if it doesn't look good on him, even if he's in the wrong colours. You don't look at him. God knows you've embarrassed yourself so many times, just looking at him. And what is it about - you don't know. Ah. Fuck. Just.

Him being there, yeah. In a different kit with a different team but him being there. Scoring a goal at the wrong end of the pitch but scoring a goal at Anfield still, yeah. You're thinking of Newcastle twelve years ago and the way the ball sailed into the net and the way you didn't even have to look to know it'd go in, because it was him.

The game ends. The game always ends.

You look at this fixed point just past his shoulder, where the crowd still are, decked out, dressed up, all for the occasion. Grinning at you. You look at this fixed point and you reach out a hand and find the back of his neck. Still warm from the running. You pat him again and this time the force smashes his cheek into you, so hard you feel your face jar, and you blink from the impact. And for a second, half a second, a thousandth of a second, that's all. His cheek wedged against yours, the two of you so close you think you might want to tear off your skin, still looking at that fixed point. Your jaw is set. You know how this is going to end. You know this is going to end.

When you turn out of the embrace - it is an embrace, his hand came up to meet you in the small of your back, fourteen years and it still feels like magic - you turn into him, which is a mistake. The tip of your nose brushes the flat of his cheek and you open your eyes and you see him, an inch away from you, boyish and earnest as the day you met.  

You tap him twice on the shoulder, drop your hand, once on the waist. You tap him like you're letting go.

There's that story that's actually the same, no matter which way you tell it.

You open Instagram. There's this picture. He's patting the crest on your shirt.

   

   

**Author's Note:**

> \- Listen I'm like 90% sure there's a billy joel song lyric with the word 'portrait' because i mean there has to be, but I'm also too lazy to look through his mammoth back catalogue, so just in case, he said the word in an [interview](https://genius.com/Billy-joel-big-man-on-mulberry-street-lyrics) SO THERE.  
> \- This was basically emotional word barf and I make no apologies. If everything reads completely raw then you're on the right track. I didn't edit this at all! I've never typed so angrily on a keyboard before! WHOO BOY.  
> \- aka i was reading chuck palahniuk and then gerlonso happened. aka I was thinking about microanalysis and then gerlonso happened.  
> \- Even my emotional wordbarf has notes:  
> \--- Hand: [suffers](http://78.media.tumblr.com/ae5aa21d053052595ec5f730764b98a5/tumblr_nm94lirxh91rp6ozyo2_r1_500.jpg)  
> \--- Lips: [the same picture he posted in xabs' farewell, god](http://78.media.tumblr.com/e37bbbb683b4455062ae6132bab09e9e/tumblr_o1zn31OlDF1ttln9ko3_500.jpg)  
> \--- Ankle: [what the fuck](http://stevengerrard.tumblr.com/post/96832022403/fygerlonso-the-scoreline-may-have-suggested)  
> \--- Back: [me, bawling](http://78.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lnddnpAlRD1qcjmeqo1_500.jpg)  
> \--- Voice: [THIS THING THAT RUINS ME](http://kloppend.tumblr.com/post/164178327409)  
> \--- Hand, again: [ultimate fanboy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEgiz-t_2bM), also [this poem](http://kloppend.tumblr.com/post/158257493584/extinguish-my-sight-and-i-can-still-see-you)  
> \--- Eye: [RUINOUS](http://illbedameroned.tumblr.com/post/163598517226/fygerlonso-steven-and-xabi-doing-the-kickoff)  
> \--- Shoulder: [urg](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/2e/7f/22/2e7f22c03bcacbf29db66eb887067482.jpg)  
> \--- Cheek: [this smush](http://78.media.tumblr.com/42744c3d10ddfb0ed81c1e399f90a095/tumblr_p63x23OeFf1teciwxo1_500.gif) that started it all, also [this instagram post](http://78.media.tumblr.com/54390ce0c26595b08cf88b39671734e4/tumblr_p63xm8BoPK1teciwxo1_500.png)
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


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